Seducing the Highlander (7 page)

Swiftly leaning down to kiss her, he said promptly, “It’s a bargain, my lovely captive
.
Let me undress and prove to you that a McCray clansman always keeps his word.”

“M
cCray!” Frankton exploded, whirling around. “That highland barbarian all the women whisper over. They went north, more than a hundred of those heathen Scots galloping as if the devil were at their heels.
He
has Leanna, damn him.”

Very calmly, Lord Falmouth, reigning magistrate of the northern courts, said, “Robert McCray was just denied his petition to have the charge you support dropped against his father. It was clever for you to lure the old man down to York to discuss the details of the livestock purchase. The deed to his border property will be in our hands soon enough when Thomas McCray is convicted and hanged.” Falmouth’s reptilian smile was thin and his eyes hooded as he sat in a red velvet chair, his skinny legs elegantly crossed at the ankle. “It does not surprise me that a lawless infidel like Ian McCray would take your woman and use her as a bargaining tool. And,” he added with a chuckle, “use her in other ways, at a guess.”

“That whoreson bastard.” His vision obscured by his violent anger, Frankton could hardly see through the red haze that seemed to envelop the room. “We met in Edinburgh when one of my cousins had the poor taste to marry a Scottish earl. I sensed then his distaste for me. It is completely mutual.”

“You do have a certain reputation, my dear Frankton, that’s . . . er . . . how shall I put it? For the sake of diplomacy, perhaps I’ll just say rumor has it you usually get what you want, one way or the other.”

“You are no better,” Frankton answered.

“Indeed.” Falmouth lifted a brow—an irritating, supercilious mannerism. “That aside, my advice is to forget the winsome Miss Arlington. Given McCray’s status as an indiscriminate womanizer
and
the fact that she has been in his company—and undoubtedly his bed—for over a week now, she is no longer the tender, terrified virgin you wanted, not to mention she might have a McCray brat growing right now in her belly.”

Baron Frankton halted, arrested by the knowledge that his friend—if you considered an amoral man who could be bought for a bag of coins a friend—knew of his secret pleasures. Gruffly, he said, “Every man wants a pure bride.”

“But most do not anticipate with quite so much relish the notion of her terror and pain during her deflowering. Make no mistake, Frankton, I know exactly who and what you are.” Leaning back, looking like Lucifer himself in black robes superimposed against the bloodred fabric of the regal chair, Falmouth smiled in a parody of the real thing.

“I know you as well,” Frankton warned. “You speak of my
secrets,
” he sneered. “At least I do not lust after comely young men, keeping them in my home disguised as footmen and scribes.”

His lordship looked unperturbed. “Robbie McCray was particularly tempting,” he drawled with introspection, one hand reaching for his glass of wine. “So young and intense, his good looks striking, his sexual prowess already the fodder for whispers among the ladies. Perhaps when you retrieve the girl, you can bring him along as well. For me.”

“I thought you advised me to forget her.”

“And leave her to McCray?” Lord Falmouth laughed out loud, the sound grating in the depths of the shrouded room. “You have no intention of listening to me. I knew it before I said the words. This young
woman
”—he said the word with obvious distaste—“has aroused your lust to a level I have never seen before in all the years of our acquaintance, and besides, I believe you paid a small fortune for her, and your parsimonious soul would never give that up without a fight. Take a large force; that is all I advise, and stay out of the reach of McCray’s sword arm. He isn’t to be faced in hand- to-hand combat.”

“Oh,” Dartmus assured him, his mind still working out the details of his counteroffensive, “do not worry. Now that I know where Leanna is being held, I have a plan.”

Falmouth lifted a brow. “You always do, Frankton. It is one of the things I like about you.”

 

 

The water rippled and moved, the air hanging heavy with shadows, the wind very light and teasing. The day was lovely and warm, the breeze redolent with the earthy scent of heather and pungent earth. As she strolled along the edge of the long loch, Leanna sighed, lifting her face to the slight wind and inhaling deeply. After spending weeks in her tower and the past few days inside the castle, she found the fresh air intoxicating and the feel of the sun on her face a lovely luxury.

“Loch Cray is over ten miles long,” Robbie, walking next to her, informed her. “It has some of the best salmon fishing in Scotland, not that our clan lets anyone else test these waters with their lines. Of course, at least right now, it would be so difficult to cross our land a rabbit would be spotted trying to set foot on McCray soil. Ian has men posted everywhere, waiting for Frankton to come for you.”

Suddenly, the sunshine seemed to fade a little, her joy in the beautiful day lessening. Unable to prevent it, Leanna felt a shiver ripple through her body, and she crossed her arms over her breasts in a gesture of self-protection. “I dread the moment,” she confessed, “that I am returned to him.”

“I beg your pardon?”

The long grass brushed her skirts as birds sang fitfully, filling the morning with sound. Glancing over at Robbie—at least a decade younger than the laird, at a guess, closer to her nineteen years—she saw him frown. “I am a hostage,” she elaborated, stating the obvious. “When the baron comes, he will exchange me for your father’s freedom. It is why I was taken from Frankton.”

To her chagrin, Robbie McCray burst out laughing.

Obviously, he had never been ogled by the repulsive Frankton, or locked away in a tower for weeks without human contact except frightened maidservants and impassive guards. She said sharply, “I am glad you are amused, but perhaps if you found yourself in such a position of helplessness, you would feel differently.”

Robbie’s mirth faded, and he looked at her with those intense dark eyes. “Do you really believe Ian will hand you over?”

“I . . . I was captured to free his uncle.”

“You were captured,” Robbie said evenly, “to bring Frankton here so Ian could kill him. I doubt he counted on becoming so enamored of your person, my lady, but I would wager my soul to the devil that he wouldn’t hand you over to anyone, much less a greedy, cruel pig like Frankton. Even if you were homely and covered in pox, he isn’t the kind of man who would let a woman be abused or degraded.”

Startled, suddenly vibrantly hopeful against her will, Leanna digested his words. It was true: Ian seemed to enjoy their nights together very much, but that was lust—lust he could vent on some other woman if he wished. She didn’t dare to dream he would feel more, though . . . if she admitted it, she had begun to hope so. Stopping abruptly on the grassy path, she demanded, “Why didn’t he tell me?”

Robbie shook his head, his smile sinfully attractive. The breeze ruffled the full sleeves of his white shirt, the garment open at the throat to show a hint of a bronzed chest. “He answers to no one. He’s the laird. I can tell you from personal experience that Ian is not used to explaining his actions. You have his attention in many ways from what I can see, but this particular conflict only indirectly has to do with you. It is between him and the baron.”

“What will he do with me?” she asked without thinking.

Next to her in the mellow sunlight, with his dark hair glistening blue-black and that slight, very charming smile on his face, Robbie McCray said softly, “I cannot say, my lady, as I do not speak for Ian. However, know this: If he tires of you or if you need protection in any way, my sword is ready and my arms are open. You need do nothing except send me word and I will come for you.”

A little off balance at that generous declaration and the open admiration in his eyes, Leanna murmured, “Thank you. . . . You are kind to someone you barely know.”

“It isn’t kindness,” he responded wryly, arching a brow, the corner of his mouth lifting, “which, after a week in my cousin’s bed, I think you probably realize. You are the most extraordinarily beautiful woman I have ever met. That aside, I have never seen Ian so openly infatuated. I admit it intrigues me. Why are you so different?”

The compliment flustered her, as did the way he looked at her, those dark eyes almost familiar, they were so similar to Ian’s. The heat in his direct gaze was also disconcertingly something she had seen many times before. He was audacious, she decided, the laird’s young cousin, and she couldn’t help but wonder how Ian would feel if he heard such an outrageous and blatant offer.

Perhaps he would be jealous. Suddenly remembering Ian’s almost frantic need for her the previous night as he carried her upstairs, she wondered if Robbie’s unconcealed appreciation had not fueled her lover’s sudden overwhelming lust. The rest of the night, too, he had been more insatiable than usual, his lovemaking both tender and intense.

“Perhaps,” she said faintly, “we should go back.”

“As you wish.” Robbie seemed to understand he had confused her, and was amused by it.

This time, when he lifted her onto his horse and swung up behind her, settling his arms around her as he took the reins, she felt a little unease at being so close to him. Robbie had asked her upon their departure if she wanted her own mount, but she was not a rider; her father had only the horse he rode himself in their stables since their poverty was such that he could not afford ladies’ mounts for his daughters. When they rode together through the village on their way back to the castle, the people on the street waved in enthusiastic greeting, and Robbie answered in kind, but their stares were avidly curious as they gazed at her.

She was a hostage, she sharply reminded herself. Surely everyone knew she could not help being there.

And they probably also all knew she graced the laird’s bed, she thought in embarrassed resignation.

But it was better than marrying the odious Frankton.

 

 

In the empty room, the large bed was turned back but unoccupied. As Ian stood in the doorway of his bedroom, he felt restless unease. Leanna had been very quiet at dinner, and he had the uncomfortable sensation that something was wrong and he was at fault for her preoccupation. He’d told himself to just leave her alone, but her withdrawn mood bothered him.

He was worried over a woman’s mood. Hell and blast,
that
had never happened in his life.

It was ridiculous for him to concern himself, of course. She was little more than a pawn, a hostage, a plaything to be used to confound and humiliate the hated Baron Frankton, he reminded himself quickly.

And, looking at his empty bed, he told himself with painful honesty a second later that in such a short time, she had become much more than that. It was true, she warmed his nights, responding to his persuasive lovemaking with honest passion, but she was also sweet and innocently kind, gracious to the servants, and uncomplaining about her circumstances. Young as she was, he admired her courage and the loyalty to her family that had compelled her to accept the untenable proposal of the despised baron in the first place.

In short, he was . . . smitten.

Crossing the hall with long strides, he rapped lightly on Leanna’s door and then pushed it open. To his relief, she was inside, clad in her dressing gown, her loose golden hair a mass of tumbled silken curls down her back. Her expression was unreadable, her long-lashed eyes veiled as she looked at him from across the room.

Ian said evenly, “I thought perhaps you would be waiting for me in my room, lass. I know I was late talking with Angus, but—”

“If I do not have to go back to the baron, I cannot see the point in continuing our . . . intimate activities,” she interrupted in a cool tone, which was unlike her.

For a moment, her statement confounded Ian. Then the picture suddenly came sharply into focus. “Damn Robbie and his loose tongue,” he muttered.

“If you had told me yourself, it would have been better.” Leanna looked at him, composed, but her lovely blue eyes held a shade of accusation.

“But then,” he pointed out in perfect honesty, “you might have no longer come to my bed.”

“So you deceived me?”

He shrugged with a nonchalance he didn’t feel. She was vexed with him and he found he didn’t like it, but then again, he was laird, dammit, and since when was he accountable for not explaining his intentions anyway—much less to an English prisoner, and a woman at that?

“It wasn’t calculated deceit; it was simply omission,” he said, and was stunned to hear the defensive edge creep into his voice.

“Had you already decided you were not going to return me when I offered myself to you like a common harlot?” She put her hands on her slim hips and there was a flush on her smooth cheeks.

He never lied. It didn’t occur to him to do so usually, but it did now. Yet honesty won the day, and he admitted, “Yes, and there is nothing common about you, Leanna; nor are you a harlot.”

The compliment did not win him her favor. “I have seen the way women look at you, my lord, even the serving girls. You can vent your lust on someone else easily enough.”

“I have seen the way other men look at
you
, especially my young cousin,” he countered irritably, “and I want you only.”

A startling sentiment, especially when uttered aloud.

But all too true. He wasn’t sure which one of them was more surprised. A telling pause ensued in which they just looked at each other.

“What will happen to me if you do indeed kill Frankton?” she asked quietly, finally breaking the silence.

“Whatever you wish,” Ian told her, torn between the urge to tell her he would never let her go, and the wisdom of vowing such a thing to a woman he’d known less than two weeks. He was deeply sexually infatuated with this beautiful girl, to an extent that had never happened to him in his thirty years—but how could he know it would last? Besides, she was English, and he was laird. Wedding a Scottish lass was something he always assumed he would do eventually.